


Altered States

by elzed



Category: The OC
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-29
Updated: 2006-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This fic was originally posted as two separate stories - <i>Stoned</i> and <i>Drunk</i>.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Stoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally posted as two separate stories - _Stoned_ and _Drunk_.

Thanks as ever to [](http://bonnied.livejournal.com/profile)[**bonnied**](http://bonnied.livejournal.com/) for checking this over.

It’s been too fucking long since Ryan last had a smoke. Between the Cohen parents’ anti-smoking obsession; Seth’s inexperience and Marissa’s vodka fetish, he’s all but given up on the weed, except for the occasional rager – and it’s not like Ryan Atwood goes to many of the wildest parties. Hell, after that damn incident last year where he had to turn narc to save Trey’s ass (and look how he repaid him, the fucker), there’s not many people at Harbor who’d invite him to a party, let alone pass him a joint.  


And he misses it. Sure, there’s always drink if he’s desperate to kick back, but growing up with Dawn, hanging with Marissa and going through the whole Kirsten thing hasn’t endeared him to booze. Plus he’s never liked drink-driving at the best of times, and these days it’s a no-brainer. A quiet spliff of an evening, though, that he’d kill for.

Where’s that Jess Sathers when you need her?

**********************

Ryan’s leaving the library on Tuesday afternoon after a couple of hours of studying for an AP Math paper, his head still wrapped around differential equations, numbers spinning through his mind, when he walks straight into Taylor Townsend, who lets out a squeal.

“Ow! Watch out, Ryan – I mean, it’s not like I’m wearing camouflage or anything,” she complains, pointing at her peach top and orange vest combo. “What are you, stoned?”

“I wish,” he snorts. “Sorry – I just didn’t look.”

She tips her head sideways and looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, until he begins to feel uncomfortable. Taylor has a very piercing gaze, sometimes, and for all the crazy talk, he’s often surprised at how astute she can be.

“Come to think of it, Ryan, you of all people probably could do with getting a little wasted now and then. What are you doing right now?”

“Huh?” He’s starting to think that maybe someone did slip something into his soda earlier, because he can’t be hearing her right.

“What? Just because I’m a straight A student and not some teen slut who blazes at every study break doesn’t mean I don’t like to let my hair down now and then,” she says primly. “So, are you coming?”

Ryan hasn’t moved. He’s genuinely at a loss for words. _That_ he didn’t see coming.

“Oh, please, Ryan, get over it.” She turns on her heel and marches off with that precise stride of hers, stilettos clicking along the hall and he stares at her back, noting how cute her ass looks in that hip-hugging miniskirt, before deciding to risk it. After all, Taylor’s a friend of his. Or of Seth and Summer, at any rate. And she looks kind of hot, too.

He runs down the hall to catch up with her and she doesn’t say anything, just smiles and continues until they reach the main exit together and walk down to the parking lot. Taylor makes straight for her car, and after a brief hesitation Ryan follows her, strapping himself into the seat without asking her where they’re going.

When they pull over in front of what must be her house, he sneaks a sidelong glance at her.

“Okay. We’re here. What? Did you think I was going to take you to some skeevy joint to score or something?” She looks a little indignant, and Ryan laughs.

“No. Just, you know, I didn’t have you pegged as the kind of girl who smoked weed.”

Taylor doesn’t reply but she raises her eyebrows at him slightly, as if to say ‘What do _you_ know about me?’ and Ryan suddenly remembers that she had an affair with Dean Hess and that in all probability, Taylor isn’t quite as naïve as she appears.

She takes him inside the house, through the living room and down a long white hallway to her bedroom, and it’s a lot less girlie than he expected – books everywhere, and a couple of Japanese posters on the wall – one for some obscure _anime_ , the other for some violent cop B-movie of the kind Seth rambles on about. It’s very organized, though, in perfect order, and it reminds Ryan of his own bedroom.

Taylor crosses the room and bends down to search the bottom of her closet, offering yet another view of her heart-shaped ass to Ryan, who is beginning to think he totally underestimated her hot potential. She’s obviously found what she was looking for because she flourishes a pink fluffy purse with a grin, and goes to open the window.

“You can sit on the bed if you want,” she says as she settles on the white comforter, scooting up to make space for him. “Just take your shoes off.”

Ryan can usually tell a come-on when he hears it, but he’s not sure how to take this. Somehow Taylor Townsend’s managed to scramble his brain, and he hasn’t even sparked up yet.

He kicks off his boots and sits cross-legged next to her, watching her put the joint together. When the moist pink tip of her tongue licks the paper he feels his cock stirring. Their eyes meet over the perfectly rolled joint, and he could swear her pupils are dilated.

“Do you want to do the honors?” she asks as she pulls out a slim gold lighter from the purse.

“Okay.”

Whoever Taylor buys her shit from hasn’t been cheating her, because it takes all of two minutes for Ryan to feel light-headed and relaxed. So relaxed in fact, that after they’ve both had a few more puffs and Taylor’s gotten rid of the joint out of the window, he lies back on her bed and crosses his hands behind his head.

“Oh, making yourself comfortable, Mr. Atwood?” she mocks and he grins as he nods in response.

“Is that a problem?” he says, and he lets his voice dip a little lower than usual. He doesn’t know why, except that there’s a _vibe_ in the air, and somehow Taylor is looking hotter than he remembers.

“No – actually, I think it suits you,” she says.

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, you know, you’re always the broody one, the guy who takes on everybody else’s shit – like, duh, Marissa? I mean, the girl is a walking mess of issues, but you just _had_ to save her from herself, so…”

“Not you, too,” he groans. Man, is it really that obvious?

“Ry-an! Please tell me you’re at least aware of this… tendency of yours,” she says with an impatient sigh. “Or else, you really need to consider therapy.”

“Therapy?”

“Well, at least a little counseling. You know, just to get it off your chest. Sometimes, you just need someone to talk to.”

At that, Ryan starts laughing, because clearly Taylor has forgotten that he lives with the Cohens.

Clearly, Taylor’s also made the connection, because she grins. “Oh, I can imagine Seth always wants to talk, but about himself, right? I bet he doesn’t listen very often.”

Ryan shrugs – that cannot be denied. “Sometimes. But you forget Sandy.”

“Okay,” she concedes. “Okay. But you know, if you ever change your mind, I know a fantastic guy whose waiting list I can totally get you on.”

Ryan shakes his head, still smiling. But he keeps glancing at her, because he finds her really cute when she goes all earnest on him. And she’s turning him on. Maybe it’s the way she stretches in front of him, letting her top ride up, exposing taut tan skin; or it’s just that he’s noticing for the first time quite how nice her breasts are, topped with nipples that look totally suckable, even through her tee-shirt, and that are definitely erect.

He tracks his eyes back at her face, and she’s got this _look_ , her lips are slightly parted, her breathing shallow, and Ryan Atwood has kissed enough girls in his life to know that this is an unmistakable green light. In fact, this is a kiss-me-now-or-else moment, and he’d be a fool to pass it up.

Or maybe it’s just the weed talking, but he’ll take a chance.

So he pushes himself up from the mattress and sits alongside her, without saying a word. She hasn’t moved, except her eyes, which are now fixed on _his_ mouth, and Ryan leans forward and captures her bottom lip between his, their noses bumping slightly before he tilts his head to adjust.

It’s tentative at first, their lips nibbling at each other, tongues just brushing, until Ryan slides his hand in her hair, cradles her head and pulls her closer to him. Taylor moans quietly in his mouth when he does that, and their kissing intensifies.

She tastes fresh, minty and sweet at the same time, and she can really kiss – once again proving that the prim-looking ones often turn out to be wild in the sack. It only takes a few minutes of this before Ryan lets himself fall back onto the mattress, pulling Taylor over him, and the temperature in the room heats up a few degrees.

Part of Ryan’s brain is busy processing what is happening, and wondering about the consequences – he’s only recently got his freedom back after the long, drawn-out agony of his relationship with Marissa, does he really want to start something else, especially with someone like Taylor Townsend? – while the other half (or to be more accurate, probably the other nine-tenths) is just enjoying the intense sensations; the feel of Taylor’s tongue inside his mouth, her little sighs and moans, the weight of her body on his, the delicious friction between their clothed bodies, her crotch rubbing against his now fully-erect dick and all the other pleasurable elements of this impromptu makeout session, magnified by the buzz from the smoke.

To be honest, he never expected anything like this, but now it’s happening, he is finding it way more fun than he could have imagined.

Taylor’s the one who breaks contact eventually, pushing herself up on her elbows over him with a slightly bemused air.

“What are we doing here?” she asks. “I mean, I don’t want you to get the impression that I invited you around here for this, you know? I know I’m always the one with the plan – but this… I didn’t quite plan this.”

“It’s okay,” he says with a smirk. “I take full responsibility. Well, me and your stash, I guess. It’s… good stuff.”

“I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be _that_ good,” she says, and then she blushes. Her hair is mussed, her lip gloss smudged, and Ryan takes one look at her heaving breasts – yeah, she is _definitely_ getting way aroused – and deliberately presses his erection into her crotch, earning a little gasp.

“Yeah? I’m kind of surprised too. But… this _is_ nice. And it beats doing math homework in the library.”

“Oh, Atwood, you really know how to talk to the girls,” she mocks, but her giggle turns into a squeal when he tickles her waist mercilessly, and they end up rolling together on the bed until she’s flat on her back and Ryan’s the one propped above her, the muscles in his forearms flexing, and the full weight of his body on her.

He holds her captive there for a few moments, pushing his hips into hers in a very gentle rocking motion, and he watches her closely as her eyes glaze over.

*******************

Taylor is having trouble focusing not just her eyes but her brain. She’s not entirely honest when she says she hadn’t planned this – certainly, when she invited Ryan back for a smoke in her bedroom, there was a little spark of hope that something might happen.

Because ever since she rid herself of her absurd crush on Seth – and that was, she knows, as much misplaced gratitude at how he had her back during the lock-in as anything else – she’s been paying attention, discreetly of course, to his brother. There’s something about Ryan Atwood, she couldn’t help noticing, and it’s something that a lot of the people at Harbor don’t seem to get.

And the way Marissa treated him drove Taylor crazy – can’t the bitch realize what a cool guy he is? Taylor’s acquaintance with cool might be vicarious and distant at best, but she knows it when she sees it, and Ryan Atwood? _Definitely_ cool. Totally out of her league, too, but then maybe not so much, she’s thinking now.

Not so much, and yet… she has no idea where this is going.

Except that he’s hard against her, and _she’s_ making him hard, and his kisses are intense and passionate and make her want to strip naked and spread her legs and let him do whatever he wants to her.

Clearly not such a good idea, seeing as they’re barely friends, and she’s stoned, and this isn’t even a first date.

Or is it?

The atmosphere in her bedroom has moved from relaxed and playful to heavily charged now, and Taylor is very aware that if they start something, they’re going to have to finish it. She may look prim and ladylike, but she knows herself well enough to realize that if they go past a certain point, she’s not going to be able, or willing, to stop his lust-driven teenage urges.

Especially since it’s been a while since anyone paid any attention to her in that way. Dean Hess – yeah, he was a creep, she can see that now from where she’s standing, and she knew all the way that he was acting way out of order with her, but he was hot, and he _really_ liked her. And he knew how to please her, too.

She has a flash of Jack’s eyes looking at her from between her legs as he licks and sucks her to orgasm in his office, on his fucking desk, and the remembered pleasure triggers a wave of desire in her veins, exacerbated when she imagines Ryan instead of Jack, Ryan’s hot tongue on her clit, getting her off, and she bites her lip to stop herself from moaning out loud.

All of which Ryan can see, of course, and he smiles at her and dips his head to her neck. His tongue is hot and wet and slick against her skin, and the way he nips at her makes her squirm. He’s licking lazy circles now, descending across her shoulder, heading south, and her nipples harden under her top in anticipation of his touch. He mouths her breast through her tee-shirt, and she arches her spine, reluctant to break contact, wanting more.

They’re still dry-humping, and Taylor can feel herself growing wetter with each thrust.

“Whoa… Fuuuuck,” Ryan breathes into her ear, grinding his crotch against hers; the sound of his voice triggering a shiver of desire down her spine. This is delicious, and it feels forbidden, even though she knows he and Marissa are broken up. She could almost get off like this, just from the friction, and the hotness. Especially when he pauses and struggles briefly with his shirt, pulling it off to reveal a pretty ripped chest. And then…

And then he slides his hand down her skirt and up it again, rough fingers against the soft tender flesh of her inner thigh, slowly, and Taylor knows that he’s soon going to realize quite how aroused she is by all this, which makes her cringe a little. It’s going fast, too fast and yet not fast enough, with the intense horniness fuelled by the grass and their raging hormones.

Oh God, the tips of his fingers, brushing against her clit through her panties, pressing just a little; he’s barely touched her and she feels like she’s on the verge of coming already. She spreads her legs, pushes against his hand.

He’s sucking and biting her right nipple, still covered in bra and tee, both wet now with saliva and plastered so close to the skin she might as well be naked, and his fingers are slipping under her underwear, into her moist warmth, circling expertly the hard bud of her clitoris. Taylor is in total sensory heaven, her whole body yearning for more, her voice reduced to inarticulate soft cries as Ryan probes deeper, coating his fingers in her juices, and dear God, pushes into her and reaches some exquisite spot inside her that Jack never did.

He’s saying something in her ear, breathing indistinct words that she can’t quite make out.

“Huh?”

“I want to taste you,” he rasps, licking the shell of her ear for good measure, and all Taylor can do is nod and let her head drop back. He can do what he wants to her – finger her until she comes, suck her, strip her, fuck her – whatever Ryan wants, providing he doesn’t stop _this_ , the pressure and the rhythm and the pleasure like liquid fire running down all her nerve endings.

He doesn’t stop, no, he just adds to it, and suddenly the fingers are joined by his tongue, hot and slick and skilful on her clit, by his mouth, nibbling, nipping gently and, oh, sucking on her, and Taylor digs her nails into his scalp, clutching at his shaggy hair, hanging on for dear life as everything spirals out of control. She’s coming, hard, in some crazy fractured approximation of reality where her orgasm never stops but just seems to go from peak to peak until she’s screaming her release, and her brain shuts down, synapses fried by the intensity. She’s just lying there, still trembling and moaning with the aftershocks, and Ryan is looking at her from between her legs, eyes wide, pupils dilated, his mouth just ghosting over her sex.

“That was something,” he says, and his tone is both awed and heavy with unfulfilled desire.

Taylor nods – she’s entirely lost the power of speech. That was, indeed, _something_. She’s not quite sure what, but she thinks she may have underestimated sex, and God knows she’s been paying it a lot of attention in the past couple of years. That, or her dealer’s been lacing his weed with Ecstasy.

She’s still recovering, and Ryan is already working his way up her body with soft feathery kisses, until his tongue is back in her mouth, tasting of her, which is hot and skeevy at the same time. She can feel him, still hard and insistent, pressing against her thigh, so she sucks his tongue in, licking it and caressing it with her own in the most suggestive way she knows, and he growls deep in his throat and blankets her even more effectively, his body molding into hers until every square inch of her skin is covered by his, warm, alive, sensual.

Taylor can feel his desire, the need, the want radiating from his every pore. She musters all her strength and pushes him off her and onto his back and examines the bulge in his pants, running her tongue over her lips absolutely on purpose. She steals a look at him under her lashes and of course – he _is_ a boy after all – his eyes are fixed on her mouth and he looks so sexy and hot and desirable.

She starts delicate soft kisses on his chest, her tongue and teeth nipping their way down towards his crotch, and Ryan raises his hips as her hand glides up his thigh. She teases him for a while, getting ever closer, breathing over him but not actually touching him until he looks at her pleadingly, biting his lip, and she relents.

So Taylor starts unbuttoning his fly, tracing the outline of his erection through the denim first, then his boxer briefs before grazing the soft skin of it with her nails, Ryan shivering under her touch. She runs them along his dick a few times, and he’s so fucking hard.

He has a nice cock, nicer than Jack’s, she thinks, thicker perhaps, smoother, with a swollen red head positively begging for her mouth; a nicer cock in fact than most others she’s encountered (or maybe it’s the gratitude speaking, because she’s still feeling little tremors from her orgasm going through her). She leans over him, letting her hair brush over his thigh, and she grasps him with her right hand and then very slowly licks the underside of his cock all the way to the tip.

She repeats it twice, three times, and then opens her mouth and plunges down on him, hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard, relishing the feel of his thickness in her mouth, throbbing, hot, God, so hot.

***********************

Ryan lets out a groan and jerks his hips in automatic response – holy fuck that feels good – and he can’t resist propping himself on his elbows to look at her going down on him because it’s _Taylor Townsend_ giving him a blowjob, and there’s a part of him that won’t believe it if he doesn’t see it. God, she looks so wanton and debauched with her lips stretched around him, head bobbing up and down smoothly, her tongue drawing patterns on his sensitive head.

He wonders whether Dean Hess taught her some tricks, because she is really _fuckin_ g good, and then he immediately regrets thinking of the fucker, who’s the last person he wants in his mind now. But Taylor dispels the image pretty damn quickly when she brings her hand into play, squeezing his shaft and sliding lower to stroke his balls, rolling them between her fingers gently, sending spikes of pleasure straight to his brain.

Now Taylor’s mouth has followed her hands, and she is sucking his balls into her mouth, which takes Ryan by surprise, not least because it feels so great. He’s surrendering entirely to her mouth and hands, and he doesn’t even protest when a spit-slicked finger caresses the patch of skin behind his sack and creeps towards his asshole, tracing little circles and introducing a whole new bunch of nerves into the pleasure equation.

Ryan’s never thought of himself as the kind of guy who’s like his ass played with, but then he’s never had a girl do that to him – hell, Taylor’s making him feel like a wide-eyed fourteen-year-old boy all of a sudden – and he has to admit it feels fucking good.

She lets go of his balls with a little sigh and looks up at him through her lashes, mischievous, making a show, once more, of slowly parting her lips and licking them before engulfing his dick again, her moves slow and precise, and this time she takes him in even deeper. Ryan can feel his head hitting the back of her throat, which convulses, but Taylor doesn’t let it bother her, and now she’s swallowing around him and Christ, he’s going to come really fast if she keeps going.

Maybe it’s the weed, too, messing with his head, heightening every sensation, but if pressed he’d have to say he’s never had head that good before, that hot. So when she pushes the tip of her finger inside him, a weird stretchy feeling, he lets her, and then she moves it around a bit and…

Holy _hell_ what the fuck was _that_?

Taylor does it again, whatever _it_ is, and keeps deep-throating him, and Ryan almost shouts and bucks his hips in response to the sharp pleasure radiating through his groin, and finds he’s trapped between her avid mouth and her searching finger, and either side is just taking him closer to orgasm. He vaguely remembers something about this – some drunken conversation with Trey and ‘Turo and Eddie, watching porn, and ‘Turo talking about this girl he knew that used to do this, to general laughter and taunts about being a _maricon_ ; only Ryan never thought it might be so amazing.

She’s set a rhythm now, and he’s going with it, pumping into her, letting her do with him what she wants, because he’s reaching this point of no return where his whole body focuses on coming, he’s all hard dick and tightening balls and the anticipation of release, and God –

“Fuck, Taylor, oh man!”

He’s coming in her mouth, down her throat, his cock pulsing and spurting, and with each pulse it feels like stars are exploding behind his eyelids. Swear to God, he’s never had an orgasm like that, cresting on wave after wave, leaving him spent and slack-jawed in awe. Taylor sucks down every last drop like a pro, and pulls away from his cock with a satisfied smile on her face, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before crawling back up and nestling in Ryan’s arms.

“That was fantastic,” he says after several minutes’ silence. “I’ve never…”

Taylor laughs then, a dirty laugh. “I have my tricks.” She sounds saucy.

“I’d ask where you learned them but I really don’t want to know the answer.”

“I’ll have you know there’s not just one possible answer to all your questions. I have lived a little… Anyhow, don’t worry. It’s not Jack Hess.”

Ryan groans. “Thanks. Great visual.”

“But it’s not him!” she cries, still laughing.

“Doesn’t matter. The thought is enough.”

She nuzzles his neck, and he squeezes her waist and lets her burrow against him. He’s still a little buzzed, and he’s comfortable on her bed, their bodies entwined, both of them coming down from the combined high of the pot and the sex. In fact, he could definitely do with a little more of the high.

“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair. “What do you say to a little post-coital smoke?”

She half-raises her head and smirks at him. “You think you can handle it?”

Ryan pulls back a little and looks at Taylor, whose cheeks are still pink from arousal; taking in her half-undressed body, sexier than simple nakedness, one breast spilling out of her tank top, her skirt still pushed up to her waist, exposing her sex, her lace panties tangled around one ankle. She looks totally hot and mussed and fuckable.

Can he handle it?

“Hell yeah,” he says, his eyes crinkling. “Bring it on.”

He doesn’t know what this will mean when they next meet at school, and whether she has expectations about this or whatever, but he does know he hasn’t spent that pleasant a Tuesday afternoon in months, or had that good a time in bed. Maybe he _is_ ready to kick back and enjoy life a little, get to know Taylor and hang out. Get stoned now and then. Get laid a lot.

It beats therapy any day, in his book.

Besides, he really could handle another smoke. And more leisurely lounging about, more kissing and touching and licking and sucking, maybe even some fucking if Taylor’s game. He loves the sensual buzz he gets from grass, the way it both relaxes him and sharpens his senses; how it connects with his libido, and increases his pleasure. And Taylor – well, he’s willing to bet she has more interesting tricks up her sleeve, courtesy of Dean Hess, or not.

She’s already smiling at him with a lewd spark in her eyes, and he can feel his cock twitch in anticipation of round two.

So yeah, Taylor, bring it on.


	2. Stoned

Many thanks to the peerless [](http://overnighter.livejournal.com/profile)[**overnighter**](http://overnighter.livejournal.com/) both for organising this challenge, and for betaing the crap out of this fic...

Written for the Season 4 Advent fic challenge.

 

The second time Ryan sleeps with Taylor they’re both drunk. She’s pissed, he’s guilty, and somehow it’s not at all what he’d imagined after that day they fell into bed, stoned and horny, and had mind-blowing, leisurely sex all afternoon instead of studying in the library.  
  
But then he’s always played it cool after a first date – or a first fuck, whatever –cautious, unwilling to assume too much; even when he knows in his heart that it’s probably the wrong approach, that a girl like Taylor might be pushy when it comes to a lot of stuff, but not where it counts. Not that he thinks that what happened between them is all that serious, but…

There is also a part of him, sly, that whispers “Taylor _Townsend_?” into his ear and makes him cringe a little. But really, it’s his own lack of momentum rather than a deliberate snub, and if she _had_ taken the lead, he wouldn’t have said no. _If_ she had – but of course she’s been all perky and business-like, pretending it’s all under control, and their combined aloofness makes any sort of follow-up awkward – not really even probable – and in the end nothing happened.

Whatever. It’s not like he’s ever been good at figuring out the rules of the road for Newport’s dating scene. Not that they don’t run the gamut – from the Jess Sathers crotch-grabbing approach to Marissa’s strict blue-balls strategy. Which she must have reserved only for him, Ryan thinks now, because he can’t imagine that fucking Nazi surfer asshole she’s hanging with waiting until the second date to get laid, let alone being stalled on second base for eighteen fucking months.

So when Taylor eventually seizes the opportunity and turns up with her Korean dish of the day (and where the hell did she learn _Korean_ , of all languages?) Ryan shrugs it off. Good luck to Sung Ho. Although he still jerks off to memories of her going down on him, and feels a little wistful once in a while.

It’s probably his fault, but to be honest, he doesn’t really know what he wants at that point, and another Newpsie is probably not the answer. Even if she’s dynamite in bed.

It’s easier that way, and at least when he meets Sadie, who’s the anti-Newpsie, as far as he’s concerned, and a pretty good antidote to all this bullshit, he doesn’t feel like he’s betraying anyone. Except, perhaps, Marissa, but by then he knows better than to take that into account, since she very clearly doesn’t feel the same.

So it comes as something of a surprise when he runs into Taylor at one of the countless Goodbye to Harbor senior parties dotted through Newport in the dying days of the school year. Not that Ryan has attended many, but after the whole Sadie debacle, and with Marissa’s continuing spiral into self-destruction, he’s decided to give himself a break tonight, get good and wasted, and get laid.

Sometimes it amuses him quite how quickly he’s reverted to stereotype after all the long dry months when he was living like a monk and having to rely on internet porn and his own right hand for any kind of relief. Why he let Marissa mess with his brain to that extent he still can’t figure.

But a few shots of vodka and a couple of beer chasers in, he can’t see anyone at the party he really wants to hook up with, even if he knows he could get some if he made the effort. Looking at the cookie-cutter bikini-clad babes giggling as they down Jell-O shots and jostle for position next to the nearest joint-holding jock or powder-smeared mirror isn’t as appealing as he thought it would be when he left the house earlier.

Maybe another couple of drinks will fix that, he thinks, lurching toward the bar – which is when he runs into a slightly smudged and clearly intoxicated Taylor. Actually, he doesn’t recognize her at first. She’s just another hot chick sashaying past in a pair of tight shorts, shapely legs tapering into a pair of strappy heels, with a swing to her hips which keeps his eyes fixed on her back, mesmerized by the tan stripe between cropped shirt and waistband, and the curve of her ass below.

And then Ryan realizes who she is, at about the same time that his dick remembers what Taylor’s mouth felt like, and twitches in his pants.

************************************

Taylor’s already in a pissy mood when she arrives at the party. Sung Ho’s disappeared for the night with one of his cousins – seriously, the man has about a million cousins, and there’s this unwritten rule about family that makes them priority over Taylor half the time, and no matter how cool she is about this, it’s annoying. Especially since she’s pretty sure they’re going to end up in this dive run by Sung Ho’s disreputable second cousin – another one – where she’s certain there are strippers.

She’s been at the bar for the better part of an hour, flirting with the – hunky, shirtless, sleazy – Brazilian bartender, drinking caipirinhas like there’s no tomorrow. Add to this the fact that said bartender (Joao?) has been looking down her cleavage while he mixed the drinks, and she’s loaded. She’s even beginning to fantasize about the possibility of a discreet fling – her Portuguese is pretty much non-existent, but it’s not that hard to communicate with Spanish and English, plus she’s already learning some new words, and he does have a fabulous six-pack.

And then she goes to the restroom for a quick makeup check, and who does she run into? Fucking Atwood, that’s who. Looking wasted and hot and a touch scruffy in among all the plastic Harbor people (and yes, even the bartender is looking more “failed actor” than “exotic conquest” now, she’s sorry to admit), and Taylor feels her gut twist and her nipples harden simultaneously at the memory of their tryst.

Damn. What’s she going to do now?

Through a light fog – no, more of a mist, she decides – of sugarcane liquor, she summons entrenched reserves of self-control to muzzle the urge to touch him. She is the queen of reserve; she is the mistress of her own domain; nothing can bother her. She nods her head at him, icy, polite:

“Ryan. I didn’t expect to meet _you_ here.”

He starts and looks at her guiltily, bringing his eyes up to meet hers, and that’s when Taylor realizes he’s been checking her ass and bites off the smile that comes to her lips.

“Nice to see you too, Taylor,” he says, and she wishes she could tell what he’s thinking behind those blue eyes. “Can I get you a drink?” he adds, with a glance at the bar.

What the fuck…

“Let me,” she says impulsively, laying a hand on his arm – the self-control is evidently fraying. “The bartender makes the best caipirinhas,” she whispers confidentially, leading him towards Joao and his rippling chest.

“Caipi- what?”

“Trust me,” she says brightly. “You’ll like them.”

She raises a couple of fingers at the bartender as she slides back onto her high stool. If Joao’s pissed that she’s returned with company, he doesn’t show it, and he starts mixing their drinks immediately

Next to her, Ryan is leaning on the bar, watching the guy crush the sugar and lime in the glass, pour the clear alcohol, stir it with the ice, all in practiced, almost ritual moves. Taylor can tell he approves of his economical gestures, his lack of flourish. When the glass is set in front of him, Ryan nods his thanks and studies it briefly before picking it up and tasting the drink.

“Told you,” she says as he takes a second, longer sip.

Ryan looks at her over the rim of the glass, his eyes crinkling, puts it down and licks his lips, which Taylor finds oddly distracting.

“Okay, you were right. So how many of these have you had tonight?”

The hell if she can remember. Her best guess is four, but she’s not sure – Joao might have given her a free refill, or three, at some point. Enough to feel loose-limbed and a little fuzzy, not enough to fall off the stool. Enough to get hot and bothered by the presence of Ryan next to her, not enough to grope him. Yet.

She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“I might have some catching up to do,” he says, draining his drink in one go, and signaling to Joao to bring two more, and Taylor feels her insides clenching at the sound of his voice, rough and slurring at the edges, with a hint of drunken sex in there, too, she’s sure.

It drives her crazy, the way her body still responds automatically to him, after all these months she’s trained herself to ignore him, to pretend she didn’t care that he never called her, never said anything at school, never made another move. She’s gone through her own personal hell of insecurity and rejection – a place she knows all too well – and she doesn’t want to go back there. She was that close to falling for Ryan, and if it hadn’t been for Sung-Ho’s persistence (and his Korean charm, for which she has a total weakness) she’d still be wallowing in self-pity and pain. She fucking _knew_ all the time that he was out of her league.

No – she’s not retuning _there_. Not again. Besides, she really does like Sung-Ho.

But then she catches a glimpse of those clouded blue eyes and that shaggy blonde hair, the shadow of scruff along his jaw, his mouth (and, oh God, the tongue that had her screaming again and again), and even without looking, her imagination can supply the rest. The memory of his compact, muscled body, from broad shoulders to narrow hips to swelling hard cock, the smell of his skin, the feel of his fingers – it’s all imprinted in her senses. She feels the crotch of her panties getting damp, as a familiar itch rises between her legs.

It doesn’t help, either, that she can actually see Ryan’s pupils dilating as he looks at her, and yes, it could be the alcohol, and the light – whatever – but to her it looks a damn sight more like arousal, especially when he licks his lips again, this time staring straight into her eyes.

Even drunk, Taylor is good at dissimulation, though, and she knows she has to keep the conversation going, so she prods Ryan on the subject of college, and he sounds surprisingly upbeat about it, telling her about Berkeley, his trip there and the feel of the place. He never mentions Sadie, and Taylor knows better than to ask.

“And you?” he asks.

“I… have a couple of possibilities,” Taylor hedges. “Maybe abroad for a year or two.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Korea?”

“No!” She laughs, and he joins in. “God, can you see me going to protest marches in Seoul with all the crazy students? No – I was thinking more like Paris, the Sorbonne, you know, to study French. For a while – and then maybe back to California. I’ve been looking at Stanford, too. They have a good linguistics program…” she trails off.

“Sounds cool. I’ll come visit you in Paris, you can show me the Louvre,” Ryan quips, and Taylor gets the feeling there’s something hidden there, but she can’t quite figure it out. Between her thighs, a slow fire is burning, and the cocktails are doing nothing to douse it. _Au contraire_.

Ryan has edged a little closer during their talk, and she can feel the heat radiating from his body, their legs almost close enough to touch. She’s sure he’s doing it on purpose, but whether to tease or because he has serious intent, she can’t tell. Although as the drinks flow, she’s really starting to lean towards the latter.

Around them, the party is getting wilder as gatecrashers and stragglers swell the ranks, with a sizeable contingent of kids on their second or third rager of the night. It’s maybe one in the morning when a posse of very drunk girls, all dressed as cheerleaders but with mismatched uniforms, squeeze themselves next to Ryan at the bar.

One of the girls – another blonde with legs up to there – gives Ryan a lingering glance, and much to Taylor’s irritation, he responds with one of his own. Her breasts are all but spilling out of her little red vest, and her nipples are peaking proudly through.

Taylor suppresses the urge to strangle her. Instead, she swirls her glass, making the ice cubes clink satisfyingly, takes another sip, and nearly chokes on it when Ryan’s hip makes firm contact with her bare thigh.

This was _definitely_ deliberate.

Fucker. But, oh, such a sexy fucker. And she’s pissed at him, still, but also drunk, and so horny she could pull off her panties and straddle his crotch right here, right now. This is not a good state of affairs. Especially when she finds herself pressing against his jeans, and her breath quickens.

She steals a glance at Ryan through her lashes, and he’s staring at his glass, looking focused. He raises it to his lips, knocks the last of the drink down his throat, and then turns to look back at her and there’s no mistaking the lust in his eyes.

“Wanna jet?”

Her throat is dry, and Taylor knows she’s on the verge of making a mistake of spectacular proportions.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” she forces herself to whisper, all the while kicking herself for not walking off. Or slapping him and _then_ walking off – that would be satisfying.

“Absolutely not,” Ryan says with just the hint of a smirk, and he sounds so dirty and so full of hot drunken promise that she just slides off her stool and stands next to him. Perched on her Christian Louboutin heels, her eyes are almost level with his.

“Just so you know, I wouldn’t be doing this if I were sober,” she fires back, swiping her clutch off the bar without looking and striding off towards the door, hoping that he is indeed following her. She has no idea where they’re going, or how, except that she is definitely way too wasted to drive. Unless they really, really have to.

Outside, she waits briefly at the bottom of the front steps of the beach house, unsure of where to turn, when she feels his hands on her hips, and his breath on her neck.

“My car, my place?” he murmurs, his tongue darting out to lick the shell of her ear, and Taylor shudders, desire coursing through her veins. _Yes_.

They stumble to the Cohens’ Rover, Ryan’s hands slipping under her shirt, creeping up to her breast, his mouth on her neck, and when they reach the car she needs to lean against it to support her shaking legs. He’s on her instantly, his body blanketing hers with urgency, his tongue probing her mouth for entry. And, oh God, she remembers how good a kisser he is.

Fifteen seconds into the kiss and she’s already whimpering into his mouth, rocking her hips into his, desperate to feel his hard cock against her. Thirty seconds in and his hand is halfway down the back of her pants, grabbing her ass and pulling her even closer to him. At this rate they’ll be fucking on the hood of the car in five minutes.

One minute thirty and Ryan pulls away with a groan, opens the passenger door behind Taylor and bundles her in, balling his hands into fists to keep himself from touching her, and he stands there for a couple of seconds, breathing heavily, until Taylor pulls the door shut. She’s out of breath too, and rests her head against the seat, her eyes tracking Ryan as he walks around to the driver’s side and gets in.

“I really shouldn’t be driving,” he mutters, putting the key into the ignition. Then he looks across at her and she can’t help it – she reaches towards him, mouth offered, and he kisses her again, deep and hard, before starting the car.

Taylor tries to concentrate on the road ahead and to ignore her inner MADD mom voice calculating the amount of alcohol she’s seen Ryan drink – God knows what he had before they met, he certainly wasn’t sober – but even that voice has lost the battle against the lust coursing through her body. Gone are any scruples about Sung-Ho – oh, shut _up_! – and any doubts about rekindling this crazy, unsatisfactory and ultimately doomed affair; she’s doing her best to ignore the still-present anger about Ryan’s behavior last time; and as for the fear – no, the certainty – that she’s going to regret all this in the morning, she’s burying that down as far as possible into her subconscious.

Fuck it. There’s unfinished business here – not least because an unexpected shortage of condoms that afternoon meant they never actually closed the deal. So, well, they’re owed – or she is, at any rate, and there’s a hunger in her that won’t let up.

Ryan’s an excellent drunk driver, a fact that gives her the tiniest pause. He drives carefully, checking his mirrors, slowing at intersections – every inch the responsible teenager – and Taylor is itching to put her hand on the tempting bulge in his faded jeans just to see what would happen. Except, duh, she’s Taylor Townsend, not Holly Fischer.

She’s so focused on her excellent self-control that it takes a few seconds for her to notice that the car has stopped and that they are in front of the Cohens’ house. No sign of any other car, thank God, and she can only hope that Seth isn’t hiding inside.

“Seth is at Summer’s,” Ryan says, reading her mind. “And the Cohens are in Palm Springs for the weekend – some business deal of Sandy’s.” Which somehow sounds all kind of wrong – isn’t Mr. Cohen some kind of public defender or something? – but who cares, really. It’s not like it matters – what does is that the house is empty.

She’s got her hand on the door handle before Ryan can even think of making a chivalrous move towards it. Dammit. She’s about to make the stupidest move _ever_ – and it’s not like she hasn’t done _very_ stupid things in her life, particularly where boys are concerned (Jack Hess, anyone?) – and she can’t wait to get going.

“How handy,” she says out loud smiling back at Ryan as she opens her own door.

No turning back now.

***************************************************

There’s a voice in Ryan’s head muttering _Bad idea. Bad, bad idea_ … but it’s totally swamped by the lecherous imp that’s taken residence in his brain, egging him on, and with the booze and all there’s no contest, really. Besides, his brain has pretty much delegated all the thinking to his dick, anyhow.

Fuck, why does Taylor have to be so damn hot? She’s standing there looking almost demure, except for her nipples, taut under her close-fitting white shirt, and her lips, slightly parted. Just enough for his cock to swell again.

“D’you want a… drink or anything?”

Taylor shakes her head. “I think I’ve had quite enough,” she mutters under her breath, and that’s Ryan’s cue to move into action.

“This way,” he says, leading her to the side of the house and past the pool, trying not to sway as he skirts a lounger. He can’t believe he just drove here – even in Chino he would’ve thought twice about it, but those fucking evil Brazilian whatever-the-hell-they-were crept up on him. He’s positive he was more sober ten minutes ago.

Taylor’s heels are clicking on the concrete behind him and right now it’s the most erotic sound in the world, echoing his steady pulse, the beat of his heart, the blood pounding in his veins. He reaches the door of the poolhouse and pauses for a few seconds, long enough for Taylor to catch up with him. Her breath sounds shallow, labored, and Ryan fumbles with the door handle as the pressure in his groin grows distracting.

“Finally,” he growls when the door gives way and he steps in, Taylor tottering behind him. He pivots on his heel and pulls her close to him, pushing the door shut with his other hand and crowding her against it. He feels her squirm as her back hits the cold glass and he presses his hips into hers, grinding the length of his cock against her crotch. The fuck if he’s going to go slow after all this build up – he feels crazy and light-headed with wanting her, and judging by the mewling sound that just came from her throat, Taylor’s in the same frame of mind.

Her eyes are closed, but her mouth is open, and Ryan leans into her, pausing a couple of inches in front of her, savoring the anticipation, before capturing her bottom lip between his teeth and kissing her hard. Taylor’s tongue responds immediately, invading his mouth, hot and eager and agile, triggering more arousal in his already achingly hard cock.

All the pent-up lust from their aborted session in the parking lot – and from the months since they first hooked up – is bubbling up to the surface now, and it’s a lethal combination with the cocktails. Taylor’s hands are all over his ass, pulling at his pants, and Ryan’s busy figuring out how best to get her out of her tight shorts. He’s licking a trail down her breastbone, sucking at a nipple through her bra, his fingers struggling with her damn belt when finally it gives way and he can push the shorts down to the floor and slip a hand down her thong.

God, she’s so fucking hot and wet, he wants to get his dick in there _now_.

And judging by the grasp she has on his shaft, the feeling is mutual. Apparently Taylor is as good as he is at getting rid of unwanted clothing, and she’s now stroking and squeezing him in rhythm with the movement of his hand between her legs.

“Fuck me, you bastard, fuck me now,” she mumbles, her voice hoarse, her breathing ragged, and it takes every ounce of his remaining self-control to remember to search his back pocket – thankfully still within reach, as his jeans are at half-mast – for the condom that proved so elusive last time.

He tears the packet with his teeth and frees his hand from Taylor’s slick cunt to sheathe himself. She watches him with hungry eyes and helps him when he grabs her by the waist, angling her hips so that he can just thrust deep into her, and the feeling – _tight tight hot slick_ – indescribable around his cock.

He’s pushing into her relentlessly, fucking her against the glass door in a frenzy of pure drunken lust – somewhere in his brain he’s amazed he’s so hard – and she’s gasping, letting out little moans and cries as he pushes in deeper, as her fingers dig into his shoulders for maximum purchase.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God,” Taylor chants, and then she’s screaming, in his ear – or maybe keening – whatever, there are no words anymore, just moans and indistinct animal sounds. He can feel her tightening around his cock and it suddenly sets off his orgasm, from the first tingle in his balls to the wave of pure jolting pleasure zinging through him as he thrusts up one last time and groans his pleasure, his mouth muffled in her hair.

Almost immediately, Ryan feels his legs starting to shake under the strain. He braces himself against the wall with one arm, holding her up with the other, and tries to straighten his back.

“Hang on,” she whispers, almost inaudible, and she detangles her legs from his waist and sets her feet back on the floor, against the wall. The relief is immediate, and Ryan feels as though he is floating, all of a sudden – the spaciness of his post-orgasmic brain enhanced by the feeling of comparative weightlessness. How the hell he managed to stay upright during this with all he drank he has no idea, but clearly old habits die hard. And coming of age in Chino involved more vertical fucking opportunities than horizontal, apart from the backseats of cars, but Ryan never had his own car anyhow, so even that was a rare luxury.

He shakes his head free of drunken reminiscing and focuses in on Taylor, who’s still breathing heavily, head resting against the wall. She’s looking irresistibly sluttish, he thinks, as his eyes track down from her damp, disheveled hair, past smudged eyeliner and puffy lips, sliding along the line of her neck to the breasts spilling out of her lace-edged bra. Her shirt is open to the waist, and from there down, she is completely naked except for her heels. He zeroes in on her cunt, wet and swollen, glistening with her juices, its waxed smoothness just overlaid with a hint of stubble that Ryan finds curiously sexy. It’s good to know that even Taylor Townsend can be a little less well-groomed than she appears.

Jesus, just looking at her makes him want to fuck her all over again.

He snakes an arm around her waist and draws her to him, untying the knot in her shirt with his free hand so he can feel her warm skin against his belly. She staggers a little, and then he edges her towards the bed, nuzzling her neck. He’s feeling all kinds of affectionate now, relaxed, as if the sex had cleansed his brain of all the guilt and tension.

It doesn’t last.

Ryan has no idea what sets her off, all he knows is that one minute he’s kissing her ear, and the next Taylor’s gone rigid and is wriggling out of his arms.

“What’s up?”

Taylor’s not looking at him but at her feet, staring as though she’d never seen them before. Her shoulders are hunching in front of his eyes.

“Hey, seriously. What happened? Did I do anything wrong?” He’s desperately searching his mind for clues, indications that he committed some kind of horrible faux pas, comes up blank.

At this she snaps her head up, her eyes accusing. “Yes. Actually, you did.”

Now Ryan is completely baffled. Maybe it’s the alcohol again but he really can’t understand what she’s talking about. Maybe she’s having an angry drunk episode. Unless…

“Why did you behave like such an ass all these months?” she says, and she sounds way more bitter than a girl her age ought to.

Oh. Fuck. _Fuck_. “I…” He doesn’t even know how to explain what happened. Besides, it had felt kind of mutual, at the time. Or at least that’s what he had told himself.

“Why did you pretend nothing happened? Were you ashamed of telling your friends you slept with _me_?” She looks like she’s about to cry, her jaw clenched, and Ryan suddenly feels like the worst bastard in the world. He should have known. Hell, if he’d let himself think about it, he probably _did_ know.

“It wasn’t like that,” he tries. Even to his own ears, it sounds as lame as shit.

“Oh no? That’s what it looked like from where I was standing.”

“Actually, I thought you didn’t wanna… I thought maybe you’d slept over it and decided it wasn’t worth…” Yep – still sounds like bullshit.

“Yeah? Well you could’ve _asked_ ,” she says, her voice perilously close to breaking.

Ryan groans inwardly. Nice job, Atwood. The worst is, she’s not that far off the mark – it would’ve been easier if she hadn’t been Taylor Townsend. Not that he’s any better with the more popular girls, but that doesn’t count, since none of _them_ is sitting half-naked on his bed with reproachful eyes, her smell all over his skin.

And he can’t for the life of him figure what he can say to make it better.

********************************************

“Listen – I’m not… I’m going to go home,” Taylor says, fighting the rising tears with every muscle in her body, her outburst of anger swamped by self-pity. She _will not_ cry in front of him, dammit. She stares fixedly ahead, not blinking, and then he’s straight in her field of vision, close up, frowning.

“Don’t fucking think of it,” he growls, and he pulls her legs to him, toppling her onto her back with an _oof_! of surprise. His hands are between her knees now, parting her thighs and it feels so erotic that despite her anger she can’t resist and lets him spread her wide open.

“I was an asshole last time, and I’m sorry,” he says. She can feel his breath ghosting over the soft skin of her inner thighs. “I’m not good with girls…” and at this she can’t help snorting, “No, really. Except – well…” and his voice drops a little lower as the warm trail of his breath moves higher, closer, and if he says anything else Taylor doesn’t hear it because all her attention is now focused on the progress of his mouth.

He’s touching her now, little licks and nips just shy of her sex; followed by the slight scrape of his stubble which just intensifies the sensation. Taylor knows she should just up and leave, but this is so arousing she cannot get her body to obey the avowedly weak command issued by her mind. Clearly, her brain remembers how he made her come last time, and anything else is clean forgotten. Besides, he did apologize.

While she’s attempting to debate the issue with herself, Ryan is busy driving her crazy, breathing and licking and kissing closer and closer to her clit, but studiously not touching it, teasing her to a peak She barely realizes that she’s lifting her hips to follow the progress of his mouth, trying to guide it, and she can feel him smile against her skin.

“Ry _an_ …” she whines in frustration, and then she gasps because his tongue is on her clit, tip to tip, lapping at her center slowly, delicately, and it feels astounding.

Taylor can feel her back arching as she surrenders her whole body to Ryan’s mouth, her system flooded with endorphins, the pleasure building up slowly but surely. He alternates licking and sucking, latching onto her clit with an intensity that is driving her into another plane. She can hear her own voice distantly, half-formed words and moans mingling indistinctly with each other, and then Ryan slides one or perhaps more fingers into her cunt – she can’t tell anymore, she’s so wet – and the sensations increase tenfold.

“Oh Jesus,” she cries, “Oh fuck. Oh please…” and he curls his fingers up and into her g-spot and she’s suddenly that much closer to coming – or would be if he hadn’t maddeningly slowed his tongue back into teasing mode, lazy and unhurried.

She’s rocking against his hand now, her eyes closed, her mind focused on the signals sent by her body. Her whole center is on fire – his tongue and lips and fingers have conspired together to make her lose her grip on reality… and now – Christ, now he’s teasing her ass, sliding a wet finger around the tight ring of muscle and nerves, caressing her, probing gently and introducing a new note into the maelstrom of sensations. She dimly remembers doing the same to him, and if that’s payback, oh God she wants more of it.

Taylor thinks she might well die if this goes on, that her orgasm will make her heart stop, or drive her insane or something, because she can feel her whole body tingling and tensing and throbbing. Then Ryan pushes another knuckle into her ass, and she can fucking _feel_ his fingers rubbing against each other, inside her, _through_ her and she can’t figure out what’s where and how it all fits together except that it’s good, oh so good, and she’s panting and moaning and gasping and pushing against him, against his tongue, his mouth, his hands, coasting higher and higher…

Until, in a brief moment of crystal-clear lucidity, Taylor feels herself cresting the wave and her mouth opens in a wordless scream of release and pulsating pleasure, her body spasming, legs rigid, and she could swear her heart _has_ exploded in her chest.

Fucking Ryan Atwood. He has no right to be that good, she thinks, drawing shuddering breaths, quivering in the aftershocks of her orgasm. Nobody has the right to be that good. She feels oddly vulnerable, on the verge of tears, as if the physical intensity of the sex had stripped her of all her defenses, and of what’s left of her restraint.

Ryan is crawling back up her body, his mouth ghosting over her skin, dropping soft kisses on her hip, her belly, her left breast, her neck, and each touch makes her tremble a little inside. Finally he reaches her mouth and kisses her lightly before flopping down next to her on the pillow.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice gravelly.

Taylor nods. “Was that you… saying sorry?”

“I guess. Well, not just that. Believe it or not, I get a kick out of it too – it’s not like I was being entirely selfless…”

“Well…” She bites her lip. “Apology accepted, I guess.”

Ryan surprises her by sliding an arm under her head and around her shoulders and pulling her in close. He smells of fresh sweat and sex and her, and a trace of aftershave, and for just a few moments Taylor allows herself to believe that they’re a real couple, and that this isn’t a drunken one night stand. She settles in the crook of his arm, breathes in deeply, closes her eyes. She can hear the steady beat of his heart, as her own slows down, and she can feel herself getting drowsy and comfortable.

It would be picture-perfect, except for the niggling guilt at the back of her mind. She’s never been a cheater before – never really had the opportunity – but that doesn’t make it any better. And she _knows_ Sung-Ho might check out some strippers at a bar, but he wouldn’t do… this.

“Ryan?”

“Hmm?” He sounds almost asleep.

“I’ve got to go.” And she really does want to leave – as much as she likes post-sex cuddles, this is wrong. And not just because of Sung-Ho; worse – wrong because it could so easily feel right.

“Aw, c’mon…” he mumbles, his arm tightening around her.

“No, really. I can’t…”

“Why not? S’late anyhow. Drive you home early tomorrow…”

“I… It’s not that simple.”

“Is this about… your boyfriend?” Something in her tone obviously cut through the drowsiness, because he sounds a lot more awake now.

Taylor nods, unwilling to trust her voice, and Ryan’s arm releases her.

“I guess I should have seen that coming,” he says as she gets up and starts gathering the clothes scattered about the floor. She’s very aware of his eyes on her naked ass while she does this, and slinks away into the bathroom to get dressed, in a flush of shame. Behind the locked door, she dresses rapidly, straightens her hair and makeup as best she can, and tries desperately not to think of Sung-Ho.

When she steps back into the bedroom, Ryan is still lying exactly where he was, still naked and half hard and – oh, _gorgeous_. He’s staring at the ceiling, looking soulful, and Taylor is aching to just lie down next to him and forget the rest of the world. There’s something about Ryan Atwood that really gets under her skin.

“Well, I really should be making tracks,” she says softly.

“I called you a cab,” Ryan says, eyes flickering away from the ceiling. “It’ll be there in a few minutes.” He tilts his head towards her. “Want me to walk you?”

“No, I’m fine.” Besides, she’d rather leave with this vision of him in mind, naked and melancholy, but she’s not going to tell him that.

The door closes behind her with a click, and then Taylor’s walking past the moonlit infinity pool, through the patio and down the drive, stopping under the streetlight at the bottom. As she checks her wallet to make sure she’s got enough cash for the ride home, she finds a leftover joint, a little battered but definitely smokeable. Or it would be if she had a light.

Where’s Atwood when you need him?

***************************************

For the next hour, Ryan stays stretched out on his bed, in the hope that if he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll be able to fall asleep and stop obsessing about what a complete asshole he was with Taylor. Or about how much he wants to fuck her again. He’s still horny from getting her off earlier, and his hard-on won’t subside because he keeps drifting into pornographic memories of Taylor’s mouth, of her skilled hands, of the noises she makes when she comes under his fingers… And then, just as he considers stroking himself off to sleep, the guilt returns with a vengeance and his erection wilts.

Somewhere around 4.30am, he gives up and gets out of bed, pulls on his jeans and wraps his knuckles carefully with strips of cloth. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that violence is sometimes the only solution. When he starts hitting the punching bag, he pictures Sung-Ho’s face briefly, and feels a guilty little thrill at the fantasy.

In the end, it takes him several rounds with the heavy bag to whip his brain into submission and stop the emotions and the images whirling around. It’s not until he’s out of breath and his arms ache – knuckles bleeding through the bandages, sweat dripping down his bare chest – that he finally feels exhausted enough to accept the oblivion of sleep.

His last thought, before he passes out, is that he may have been wrong when he thought that what happened between them that Tuesday afternoon didn’t count. Not that it makes much of a difference now – he’s pretty sure that no matter how he behaves with Taylor on Monday, he’s fucked it up for good.

Fucking 20/20 hindsight.


End file.
